


The Price of Absolution

by ivorygraves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Dark, Disregards Season 4, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, General Warning for Peter Hale?, Manipulative Relationship, Minor Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Mythology References, Post-Season/Series 03B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygraves/pseuds/ivorygraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is inevitable, resurrection is fleeting, and she has the power of both in her hands. </p><p>She’s always been his perfect plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Absolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duskendales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskendales/gifts).



> Written for the Teen Wolf Rare Pair Exchange! A huge thank you goes out to the mods for putting this together - it was incredibly fun. Special thanks to my beta, rosweldrmr, for her honest feedback and endless encouragement throughout this entire round. 
> 
> And of course, thank you to my recipient, duskendales! You sent me so many wonderful prompts that it was easy to get inspired to write this. I tried to include as many of your likes and prompts as I could, so I hope this lives to your expectations and you enjoy this.

“I will strip away all that you know, all that you love, until you have no other shelter but me.” - Leigh Bardugo, _The Grisha Trilogy_

\--

When Peter dies, he leaves a piece of himself in her.

He crawls inside her broken body, lays nestled in her bones, against the sharp confines of her mind; he swims in the swell of her immense, shuddering heart, and waits.

He’s always been good at waiting.

\--

When she brings him back to life, lit only by the backdrop of the moon, there’s a piece of him that stays with her.

He does not fault that part of himself. It is the easiest to discard, anyway - that shell of a boy long dead, only celebrated by the cobwebbed photos in a dusty high school trophy case. The part that relished under her regard, gave her flowers and kissed her trembling mouth as if he belonged with her in that glittering, empty world.

Later on, he tells his nephew of her love. Even now, he can remember what it felt like to exist in it, to reside in the tender stirrings of her affection. _She is such a lovely, fragile creature,_ he thinks.

It would be so easy to break her.

\--

He lets her live.

The story he tells her is true enough: she is his perfect plan B. Immune to the bite, but still a monster lurking under her unassuming skin. He senses it in her the moment he sees her in that parking lot, so long ago. Monster meets monster, the wolf and the wailing woman.

He still has use for her, even now, wrapped around that piece of his soul he left buried in her. He watches her soft hair glow in the light of midday and remembers he made her. He does not tell her of his petty vices, of his sick fascination. He does not tell her he wants to run his hands over her, over that mark he left that created her anew.

Peter is used to destroying beautiful things.

She is so special, to have survived him.

\--

In his private moments, Peter contemplates death and resurrection. He feels the price of both in his loss of power, in his inability to fully shift. He feels it in the way Derek eyes him from the other side of the room, brows raised in silent question when he stares solemnly at his unclawed hands.

He feels it in the cold emptiness of his dreams, and almost mourns the loss of the color red - because even a madman such as himself can appreciate beauty, so splendid in its thousands of renditions and endless candor. It tells him he is still weak, and the universe enjoys reminding him of it. One more piece of himself, stripped away.

A flicker of flame, a billow of smoke. Blood and hair splayed across a grassy field.

\--

So he thinks of her. He thinks of the way the universe folds to people like her, how it reaches down into all her little crevices and whispers sweet words that only she can hear. He thinks of her speaking to the dead, and how the dead love her so.

He thinks of his family, and the grave under their house. He imagines dying in a million brutal ways, of wolves and sharp teeth and that remnant of himself desperately clinging to life.

Because even if neither death or resurrection suit him, Peter is nothing if not opportunistic. He would gladly stitch his broken pieces back together again if it meant satisfying his lust for power and possibility.

He does not anticipate what comes next.

\--

The body lies facing the west.

It is a man. He has a name, but Peter does not know it, and he does not ask. The dead don’t speak, and especially not to him.

Nevertheless, he looms in the shadows and watches the police fret and toil. There is no blood, nor are there any visible marks that point to a struggle. Even the scent is still warm, heavy but faded, as if the man just drifted to sleep and never returned. He cannot pinpoint any type of disease, and he does not look aged enough to have withered so soundlessly.

(He feels something cold settle in the cracks of his existence. It is not sympathy, or grief, but there is a moment where he imagines himself lying there under the dying autumn leaves; he drifts, ever so slightly.)

When the Sheriff glances up, he’s already gone.

\--

The next is a woman, and this time, Peter knows her.

He remembers her from many years ago, when he was still a boy in Beacon Hills High. She was not particularly dignified, or especially captivating, but he can place her regardless.

She lies prone and gently nestled under the trees. He tilts his head to gaze into the depths of the woods and wonders what her destination was.

 _Pity,_ he thinks. _I’m sure she had a good story to tell._

\--

Three days in, and five of them lie side by side.

All are the same. Face down, sunken into the earth, devoid of life, yet no outward appearance of physical suffering. By now, the Sheriff has cordoned off the woods and declared it an active crime scene. Peter senses their growing unease and ponders the mystery.

After all, how does one find justice when the dead go willingly?

He feels the white hot edge of threat pooling in his gut, even though he cannot see it; he keeps his haunches up, like a wolf in waiting.

\--

He has his suspicions, and they all lead him to her.

He knows the world is governed by unseeable forces. What he does not know is what those forces do to those who try and cheat death.

She does not see him, but she reacts as if a predator were near. Occasionally she turns her head in his direction and stares, probingly, as if she can will him to make himself known to her.

He listens to the quickening of her pulse, and it reminds him of wild rabbits he would hunt on full moons - frantic, drumming heartbeats, drenched in fear. She is brave, but just as frightened as the rest of them.

One day it will get her killed, and he will try not to be disappointed.

He watches her jump and divert her gaze to the abrupt sound of her name. Stiles stands behind her, silent and grim, and drops something on her lap.

Her shoulders stiffen, and he hears her stop breathing as she picks up the photograph.

“Two more this morning,” Stiles says. “Could you, uh - feel it?”

“No,” she says quietly. She doesn’t take her eyes off the photo. “Not at all.”

“Right,” Stiles responds. “That… complicates things.”

She nods, and traces the picture for brief moment before turning it over.

“Hey,” Stiles says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He pauses. “You haven’t seen a ghost, right?”

“No. It’s - it’s nothing,” she says, and gives him a small, shaky smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

\--

He finds her in the woods, just before sunset. Her back is turned to him as she traces over a faded paper target nailed to the bark.

Peter watches her tremble and waits.

“You’ve been following me all day,” she says eventually. “What do you want?”

“Not quite the greeting I was looking for,” he replies, edging his way out of the shadows. He watches her intently as she turns to face him, and he has to give her credit - her pulse only quickens a little. “I want the same thing as you.”

“Do you,” she says. Her mouth is carved into a tight line; her eyes flicker over him for the briefest of moments before finally narrowing her eyes on his face. “And what’s that?”

“The truth.” Peter takes a few careful steps towards her and watches as her posture tightens. A smile touches his lips. “Strange, isn’t it? People disappearing in the middle of the night, found dead in the woods. No injuries, no disease, no connections between victims...” He shrugs. “It’s dangerous out here, all by yourself. I’m here to help.”

“You,” she says flatly. “ _You’re_ going to help.”

“Of course,” Peter says. “I’m not a _complete_ monster.”

“You murdered your own niece,” she says. “And possessed me to bring yourself back to life.”

“True,” he starts. “But considering everything that’s happened over the past few months, am I truly the worst thing that’s come to Beacon Hills?” He takes a few more steps, and this time he hears the quickening of her heartbeat, the tiny catch in her breath as he presses his chest to hers; she wears fear like a crown. “This is my home too, you know,” he says. “An unidentified threat is still a threat.” He nods at the lonely, grayed target beside her head. “I’m sure the hunter would’ve agreed.”

“ _Don’t,_ ” she says, all clenched teeth and fisted hands. “Don’t talk about her.”

He smells blood pooling up from the crescent-shaped marks on her palms and hears the song of grief from every beat of her heart.

“I see I’ve touched a nerve,” he says. His lips hover over hers, and their eyes lock. Neither of them move away. “It must be so difficult, losing someone you love. I know how that feels.”

“You don’t know what love is.”

“You’re wrong,” he says. “I’ve lost my entire family. I spent six years in a coma. Do you know what that was like? To lose everything?” He traces a hand down her face, moves a stray strand of hair before she jerks away. “It was devastating. Like the very foundation of my world was destroyed. And all that was left was pain, and fear, and hopelessness...” He gives her a pointed look. “Sound familiar?”

“I’m nothing like you,” she says quietly, and he lets her pretend he can’t see the brightness in her eyes.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he says. “Did you know that in some legends, the wolf is actually the banshee’s closest companion?” He leans in close, and he can feel her breath against his skin, feel the heat of her through her clothes. “Or even a protector.”

She swallows hard, and instead of answering, she asks, “What game is this?”

“Oh, Lydia,” he says, pressing his mouth right against the shell of her ear. “This isn’t a game.”

\--

And so they begin.

She does not speak to him if she can help it. In fact, she hardly acknowledges his presence at first. She prefers searching for patterns in leaves, taking them into her nimble fingers and letting them scatter across the winds. He does not know what she hears. All he knows is that when she closes her eyes and listens, her shoulders slump and her hands quiver in mid-air; even now she’s reaching for something, unseen and long gone - and suddenly, she looks older than she truly is. Her pallid skin tells tales of exhaustion, of cultivated questions and unanswered prayers.

(And that is a language Peter understands well; he does not bother dwelling in regret, but he knows what it’s like to sit, and wait, and stir in the ashes of loss.)

When she turns to face him, the world shifts on its axis, and they both pretend not to notice. There is no love lost between them, no mistaking the unbridled disdain she has for him. He has hurt her in cruel, unspeakable ways.

And yet he’s the only one at her side.

“What do you hear?” he asks.

Her eyes flicker over his face for a silent moment.

“Nothing,” she says finally. “Just the wind.”

\--

He’s a mere husk of what he used to be, but he’s filled to the brim with stories. They are the few good memories he has left: slipping silently into other worlds, reading tales of conquest and war, of dead Gods and lost loves, of grief so engulfing that not even the sea could swallow it. He thinks of his sister’s voice, weaving their family history together. He imagines Derek coming home and telling stories to his lifeless body.

_(Laura’s dead, Uncle Peter. Give me a sign, anything, please - )_

\--

He shares his stories with her, stories of angry gods, of spiriting people away in their ageless fury, of Hades and Persephone and how she learned to love him.

“You know, in some versions of the story, Persephone wasn’t kidnapped,” he tells her. “Instead, she could hear the despairing cries of the dead and traveled freely to the Underworld to comfort them.” He does not know if she believes him or not, but with the way her lip is caught between her teeth, he thinks maybe he’s getting to her. “In fact, in the oldest version of the myth, Persephone means ‘She Who Destroys The Light’ and she was actually the Goddess of Death.”

Lydia smiles at that, a secret dark thing that Peter is still trying to learn the language of.

Still other times he tells her stories of wolves, and girls in red.

They gaze at each other across the ever-shrinking space between them. They circle closer with each passing day, with each passing body. Peter does not dream in color any longer, but the shape of her lips remind him of white rooms in sun-ripe summer days.

She sees the shift in him and smirks. There are many stories about wolves and girls, and she’s read all of them. “You forgot a part of the story.”

“And what part is that?” he asks.

“Wolves and girls,” she says. “Both have sharp teeth.”

Amusement pools in the pit of his stomach, and he grins. “Naturally.”

\--

There are parts of her that are broken - her lungs filled with dust, her every breath remembering blood - but each time, she rebuilds herself. And in that revival, he sees a piece of himself reflected back, finds himself drawn to her in inexplicable ways.

She isn’t as helpless as she once was, but she’s vulnerable. No weapons, no hunter to protect her (he thinks of Demeter and how she halted the seasons in her ceaseless sorrow). Anything could prey on her.

He does not find her in her usual place. She’s lost to the wind, her scent a fragile and melancholy stirring of desperate hope. For a moment, he falters, and thinks he may have miscalculated, and then he’s running, _running_ -

\- throwing himself through the woods like a starving wolf, like he’s lost a limb -

\- and he thinks not for the last time that she’s his, that he _made_ her -

\- and that fear is a cruel burden to carry in such a retributive universe -

\- until she comes starkly into view and he remembers what it means to love the color red -

\- and he stops.

He finds her standing under an open patch of sky, staring at the endless space above her. Today her blood has turned to rain, her tears to mud. He smells the salt on her skin - feels something _burn_ in him - and touches her cheek, watches as she inhales sharply and snaps her head up to look at him.

He pours that spark into her until she’s as full as the moon.

“Lydia,” he says. She tries to move away, but he holds her still, keeping her cheek cradled in his hand like she’s precious. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

She stares at him with bright eyes before shaking her head. Her fingers reach up and grip his hand. “I wasn’t alone,” she says. “I heard it.”

“Who?” He leans down, crowds himself into her field of gravity. “What do you hear?” he repeats, and when she does not respond, he snarls and grips her shoulder so tightly he’s sure to leave bruises. “Lydia -”

Her mouth twists into a grimace, and her nails are digging into his skin, carving jagged marks into him that disappear as quickly as they’re bestowed. “Jennifer Blake,” she says. Her eyes regard him coolly, her perfectly manicured nails dislodging themselves from his flesh. “You killed her.”

 _Interesting,_ he thinks. He puts on his best smirk, just for her. “Well, it’s not like anyone else was going to do it.”

“She was trying to tell me something,” she says. Her eyes drift back to the sky. “She was scared, like there was something after her -”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know!” she raises her voice, not quite a scream, but everything else falls silent around her. “I don’t know,” she repeats, quieter this time. “It’s like… it’s like I’m holding water. I can’t keep it together, and it all just slips right through my fingers before I can make any sense of it.”

“You need to concentrate.”

“I _am_ concentrating,” she says through clenched teeth.

“Need I remind you, a mysterious killer is currently on the loose. It’d be preferable if you weren’t wandering aimlessly through the woods chasing ghosts of psychopathic dark druids.” He sighs and shakes his head. “You need to find an anchor. Something to keep you grounded.”

She glances away and swallows thickly. “I thought I had an anchor, once.”

“Oh?”

“She’s not here anymore,” she says simply.

\--

She sees death in its many heaving forms.

They come to her in quivering, breathless wonderment. He knows this because he has clung to her this way before, has slept in the folds of her mind and taken root in her bloodstream. She ties herself into knots trying to make sense of the language between the living and the dead, and he resigns himself to seeing this through.

She sees flickers of people long dead. People she never knew. People she did. People she loved. They reach out to her like a beacon, their miserable voices all rising into a swelling, cacophonous melody.

She reaches out to him and grips his arm. She says they’re telling her to be careful.

But she has no answers beyond that, cannot hear the truth beneath the background hum of the universe. Instead, she drowns in the voices of dead friends, and the tragic beauty of _Ave Maria_ weaving gently through the trees.

(To this day, it’s one of his favorite pieces.)

He rests on the outskirts of her, testing boundaries and letting himself drift ever closer. He knows there’s something out there, something he’s been resisting this entire time. And yet he feels her warmth seep into him, and it’s like coming home.

She sees death and it reminds her of a softer world.

He smells death in the air and it reminds him of a burning building.

\--

She measures the passing of time in deaths.

She no longer hopes for a day without it. When she sleeps, and dreams, and wakes, it is still the same. Sullen, sunken corpses cling to the earth, and she takes on their suffering, lets their sleepless ghosts settle in the cavern of her chest and thrive there like if she tries hard enough, breathes life and death into their shuddering, flickering existence, she can save them.

_( - and that one had a family that will not weep, and that one slept under the stars and smiled, and that one never learned what it meant to regret, and that one chased fireflies and wished to become - )_

But she does not hope. Hope, like fear, is a devastating burden, and she’s felt this all before. All she can do is try to predict, and wait, and be that harbinger of death her friends now know her as, that knowledge of terrifying, grotesque things to come. It shapes her - molds her into a monster like him ( _he thinks of beautiful, beautiful Persephone, stolen and built anew_ ). She strives for power, mourns the loss of it when she cannot make sense of a senseless universe.

It ruins her, and he bares witness.

She tells him stories of her own. Hushed, solemn confessions that not even her closest friends know about. She dreams about him sometimes, she says. She dreams of the younger him, the one who kissed her hands and wasn’t steeped in endless need for retribution. She dreams of a person who only exists in her mind, yet even now, he calls to her for help. He begs her to save him.

“And the worst thing is,” she says, “is that I can’t save anyone. Not you, or the people who died here, or my best friend.” Her voice cracks a little, and she can’t quite meet his eyes. “I can’t get this right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I never have.” She looks up at him now, and she doesn’t try to hide the tears in her eyes. “And sometimes, I still wish it were her I was dreaming about. I wish, just once, that I could hear her. I wish she was standing here with me now. But it’s just you. I brought someone back to life, and out of everyone, it was _you_.”

Something cold settles in his chest, and it feels like a death knoll. But he brushes the feeling aside, and comforts her with sweet words and beautiful lies. “Maybe she wouldn’t want to be brought back to life,” he says. “Maybe she’s at peace.”

“You weren’t,” she says.

“No,” he agrees. “No, I was not.”

And there they sit together in raw, open silence.

“Sometimes I think about her,” she says after a moment. “I think about all the things we used to do. Go to the mall, study together. Drive out into the middle of nowhere to follow after Scott and Stiles on another stupid adventure.” A soft, fond smile touches her lips. She is elsewhere, caught up in a memory he can’t touch. “But other times, I think about different things. Things we never got to do. Sometimes I’ll catch myself thinking about holding her hand. Or touching her face. Or even -” she stops, stunned at her own candor, and comes back to herself. “Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

“Consider it forgotten,” Peter says.

\--

They use each other.

She buries her sorrow in him like a casket, whispers words of shame and secrets full of longing, and forgets to care that it is him she’s speaking to. After all, to her, he is a dead man; nothing more than a shadow cast in the cold and tender night.

He clings to her and finds no relief. He can feel her miles away, can hear every breath, every heartbeat as if he was one of the ghosts in her chest clawing for release - and he does. He dreams of killing her, of brutalizing her and tearing into her flesh until she’s a crying, broken heap on the floor. But in every dream, in every shapeless shadow, she rises again and swallows him like the raging sea. He finds no purpose in this, no freedom from the weakness she instills in him; instead, he follows her like a loyal dog, and he hates her, hates himself when he wakes up in a cold, heaving sweat.

With every passing day, with death looming ever closer, he depends on her more and more.

She uses him to comfort herself, and he uses her for power, and it doesn’t make this real.

There are no declarations, no gentle caresses, no haven for her heavy heart, no price of absolution for his crimes against nature. But still they stumble together because they have no other shelter, anchor themselves to each other and sink to the bottom of ageless mutual destruction.

The universe does not stay silent forever.

\--

They fuck against a tree in the woods.

She notices how distracted he is lately, can see it by the way he seems to drift towards the edge of the forest, and tells him this isn’t working. She needs new ground, a new perspective, needs to leave the safety of daylight and tread into the unfolding embrace of night. It’s where this begins, where the dead lie, where the voices become just a little clearer.

And he breaks.

He feels anger lance through his body, feels claws bursting from his nail beds, and he’s pinning her, gripping her to him and hissing, “ _Don’t,_ ” and suddenly he’s on her, like a rabid dog, like she’s all he has left, and he cannot find any other way to tell her.

She meets him halfway, mouth opening under his, letting him in, letting him take and take and take, just as he’s always done. They cling to each other, an angry mess of limbs and teeth and skin, and he growls out an inhuman sound when her nails dig into the flesh of his back under his shirt, finds her lips curving into a dark smile as he bites bloody, brutal kisses into them.

“I still hate you,” she says.

“Just imagine I’m someone else,” he replies, burning with just as much spite, just as much force as he rips her blouse apart and sucks a mark into the hollow of her throat. “Could she touch you like this?” he asks, delighted how her head hits the tree, how a helpless moan escapes her wet, abused lips. “Tell me what you want.” He presses his clothed erection against her thigh, lets his hands reach up underneath her bra to knead at her breasts, enjoys the way her hardened nipples lay firm against his heated palms. “Tell me, Lydia.”

She bites her lip, refusing to give into him like always. “Just shut up and take your pants off,” she commands, her tiny hand cupping him through the fabric.

“So impatient,” he remarks, but pulls her hand away and uses his other to force open his fly, just enough to get him free. “Like what you see?” he asks, watching her eyes narrow on his cock, smirks at the scent of her arousal.

“I’ve seen better,” she quips. “Hurry up.”

“As you wish.” He grips her tightly and forces her up above the ground, moves a hand between them and hastily rips her panties apart with his claws as she hooks her legs around his hips before he lunges forward, lining his cock up against her entrance. He grins at her frustration, at her nails biting into him, at her angry, wild-eyed look, at her red hair pooling around her shoulders and falling into the valley of her breasts. She’s never looked more beautiful to him. “Tell me what you want,” he repeats himself, teasing his cock against her slick, heated folds. “Say it.”

“God,” she gasps, using his shoulders for leverage, tries to push him further inside her. “You, _you_ , I want you,” she says. “Just - _fuck me_.”

And so he does, moves in one quick thrust, and he’s inside of her, trapped between the steel cage of her thighs, and they move together in a brutal dance.

He fucks her quick and hard, holds her so tightly he’s sure to leave bruises, smells the blood and can’t make sense of whether it’s his or hers. But he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the heat of her around him, of her fingers twisting up into his hair and pulling mercilessly, of the sound of their frantic heartbeats and her calling his name, over and over again. It makes her weak. As weak as he is -  

\- she smells like spring, and it reminds him of gunpowder and daffodils -  

\- he lights her up, and she ignites -  

\- and then suddenly he’s grinding out her name as well, spilling himself into her, taking her heaving breast into his mouth and biting down hard. She screams, the first time he’s heard it in weeks, and he lays slumped and panting against her for a few moments before pulling out, keeping both of them steady on their feet as they gasp for breath.

When she comes back to herself, she unhooks her legs from around him and lets her feet touch the ground. She is completely ravished, lips bruised and semen slowly pooling down her legs as she uselessly searches for her ripped clothes; he notices the angry red mark from his teeth forming on her breast, and feels satisfaction in knowing that when she looks at it, when she feels the pain in the dead of night, trying to sleep, she’ll think of him.

“It’s a good look on you,” he tells her.

\--

When the end comes, he is ready.

After all, part of him always knew they’d end up here.

She stands in front of the Nemeton, against the dying light of fireflies and faltering images of things and people long past. When she looks at him, it’s with a cold precision, a deadly sense of calm he’s never seen from her before. Her breath rises out of her, drifts quietly into the darkness surrounding them. Her eyes are bright.

She doesn’t say anything, drifts in this moment like she can stay there forever. But eventually she does speak, and he sees that spark in her, knows he put it there, and it reminds him of a funeral pyre.

“This whole time, it was you,” she says. “I dreamed of you, spoke to you, saw the dead, all of them warning me about you -”

\- and he feels that pit of rage settling in him again, because part of him wants to grab her, slaughter her and let her blood soak the roots of the Nemeton like so many before her -

\- but another part, the part that still feels pain, the part that still gives him some semblance of humanity, wants to hold her close, wants to force her to see him as something other than that hopeless dead shadow, wants to live and breathe in her love like he did so long ago.

Peter wants so many things, and it’s all come down to this.

“I thought you were protecting me,”she tells him, “but this whole time, it was me protecting you.”

And the truth comes out, about how he used her, how he left a piece of his soul inside of her even when he came back to life. Of how he’s running, always running, and how the universe is catching up with him, struggling to find the balance by taking the rest of them in his place. Death is inevitable, resurrection is fleeting, and she has the power of both in her hands.

She’s always been his perfect plan.

And when she gets close enough, when she reaches up and touches his face, he leans into her touch. He memorizes the feel of her skin, the smell of her, the shape of her face, and tells himself he could destroy her, if he wanted to.

When she kisses him, he thinks of Persephone, and how she had the last laugh.

Her lips hover over his, fingers caressing his cheek; for a breathless, aching moment, she looks at him like she’s incredibly, incredibly sorry. “How does it feel?” she asks. “To know that when you die, there won’t be a funeral? That no one will miss you?”

He grabs her hand in his and holds it tight. “You will,” he tells her. “You’re not as cold-blooded as you pretend to be.” He tugs her closer, snarls at her with as much hatred as he can muster.

She doesn’t react to his hand clenched around hers, doesn’t seem to feel the pain.

He feels the hand holding hers burn, fester, and pulls back, growling like a wounded animal.

The mountain ash, like any insurmountable ocean, separates them. She’s formed a ring about him, trapping him there with the power of the Nemeton.

“Lydia,” he says, watching her back away, never letting her gaze fall from his. “Wait, wait - _LYDIA!_ ” He rages, howls against the confines of his prison and uselessly reaches out to her with claws and fangs. He molds his body against the barrier and lets the pain of it push him back, and for the first time in a long time, Peter knows true fear. He understands now, sees the deaths for what they were; a cosmic balancing act. The Nemeton was reaching out, reaching for him, to take back the power he stole. He’s been living on borrowed time. But he knows he won’t outlive this night. Lydia knows it too, the way she pulls back and turns away; unable to meet his eyes. There will be no escaping the Nemeton this time. He sees death funneling towards him in its relentless judgment, feels it steal his breath away and kill him slowly. For a moment, he sees his younger self ahead in the soft glow of the fireflies, flickering out of existence.

He has nothing.

And then, curling around the aching chasm of his chest, Peter finds himself laughing, breathless and bloody.

Lydia halts in her trek, turns back around to stare at him.

“Say it,” he says, grinning. “You loved me, in the end.”

For an instant, he thinks he sees her falter. He thinks of how her loved saved someone, once upon a time, and how he finally broke her with his.

“Goodbye, Peter,” she says finally, and turns away.

She stumbles through the forest and does not look back.

She does not look back when she hears him laughing, caught in distraught mania.

She does not look back when he calls her name again and again.

She does not look back when he screams of retribution, screams that he’ll kill her from beyond the grave.

She does not look back when her foot catches on a root and she lands in the dirt, mouth full of mud.

She does not look back when she feels him go.

All she does is scream, and scream, and _scream_ until she’s raw, curled up like one of so many corpses; and in that moment, she buries her heart in that grove, and listens to the wolves howl in the distance.


End file.
